


All That You Dreamed

by Eustacia Vye (eustaciavye)



Series: In Dreams [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:04:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eustaciavye/pseuds/Eustacia%20Vye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames had spun a web of lies and half truths to get what he wanted. He knew the risks he had taken, but he hadn't quite expected it to blow up in his face like this.</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/107913">Shadows In The Dark.</a> Lyric snippets from Flyleaf's "Arise."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That You Dreamed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "character shown the error of his ways" box on my [hc_bingo](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) card.

Eames had always prized himself for being a bullshit artist. It was the primary talent for a forger, and it had helped him grift in the real world. Oh, he could have fallen back on the contacts he had once had when he was a student, but he would _never_ go crawling back to that crowd. He would _never_ let on that he was anything less than perfect, anything less than in control. He knew people, after all. He knew what made them tick, knew how to push buttons and pull strings to make them move in ways he had known they would move.

Arthur and Ariadne had been the same, yet different. He had pulled the strings to bring them together around him, but there was something in them he couldn't quite touch, something there he didn't understand as well as he thought he did.

He had known it would end sooner or later. It had to; Eames had spun a web of lies and half truths to get what he wanted. He knew the risks he had taken, but he hadn't quite expected it to blow up in his face like this.

He stared at the rain falling down outside of the window of yet another hotel room, his poker chip clutched tightly within his fist. He knew this was real, knew it with every fiber of his being. He hadn't needed to check, but the pain inside of his fist was a welcome reminder of all he could expect in the world. For a little while, he had all he had dreamed of. For a little while, he had counted himself as happy. For a little while, he could almost pretend he was someone of worth.

But it had all been a dream, and he had to wake up sometime.

***

The music was low, a bass line that thrummed and hinted at sex in half lit rooms with a haze of perfume between the sheets. Ariadne was in thigh high stockings and a bustier, swaying in time to the beat, her eyes closed and her back to the bedroom door. Arthur undid the cuff links at his wrists slowly, and light winked at Eames as they shifted and bent the light. They were cut crystal, top quality and so very Arthur. With precise, deft motions he unhooked them and placed them on the dresser top carefully. He carefully undid his tie, a deep scarlet that reminded Eames distinctly of fresh arterial blood. Arthur's eyes were fixed on the line of Ariadne's spine, on the curve of her ass peaking out from the edge of the lace panties she was wearing. He was already half erect, but taking his time getting undressed. Eames hadn't bothered; he was naked, lounging on the bed facing Ariadne with his cock already at attention. The swell of her breasts above the bustier was tantalizing, and he was tempted to lean forward and lick a stripe across the exposed skin there. She held up her hair, keeping it off of her neck. The velvet choker at her throat was decorated with a small crystalline teardrop, and it coordinated with Arthur's cuff links even if they weren't the same shape. Eames wanted to pepper that smooth throat with kisses, wanted to feel her sink down across his length and sigh in pleasure.

Ariadne shifted and turned toward Arthur, giving Eames that spectacular view of her ass. She took her hands from the back of her neck, and that hair came tumbling down in waves. She beckoned Arthur forward, grasped his hands and eased him backward. Eames finally moved, rolling to his knees to press his lips to the stripe of skin between the bustier and the panties. Ariadne shivered, and let Eames guide her backward onto the bed. Arthur kissed her hungrily, hands grasping her arms, then he moved down slowly. His mouth hovered over the thin lace, already soaked through, and traced the pattern in the lace with his tongue as Ariadne accepted the kiss Eames gave her. She reached out to his waist, shifting his position over the bed so that he was kneeling beside her head. The kiss had to break, and she turned her head to lick the tip of his cock. Eames took the hint and straddled her head, letting her take him deep into her mouth.

_Fuck._ She started licking him, almost in time with that steady drum beat of the music. It was like a heart beat, a rhythm that reverberated throughout his chest as she licked him. He held himself steady and watched Arthur work his mouth over her. Ariadne's thighs trembled on either side of Arthur's head, and he held her still beneath his mouth. She canted her hips up, trying to part her legs further. Arthur started working at her clit through the lace, the sensation clearly flooding through her. She drew in a sharp breath, sucking harder on Eames, and he groaned low and deep in his throat. He approved, he so very approved, and he watched Arthur suck gently on Ariadne.

Arthur eased the panties from Ariadne's hips, and Eames could smell the scent of her desire clearly. It shot straight to his groin, as did her moan when Arthur's lips descended over her again. Arthur slid his fingers inside Ariadne as he sucked her clit, and her sharp suck on him was all he needed to come. She swallowed him down and kept right on licking and sucking and grasping at his hips, fingertips tight and digging into his ass. He could hear the whimpers deep in her throat as Arthur worked her body, thighs trembling as she held them open for him. "Fuck her hard," Eames groaned, staring at the top of Arthur's head. "She's more than ready for it."

The song switched over as Arthur pulled back, lips glistening with Ariadne's moisture. He nodded sharply, and rose. He was rock hard, and Ariadne let go of Eames' hips with one hand to reach for Arthur. He took it with his corresponding hand even as his other one grasped her hip. He plunged in deep, and Ariadne's intake of breath around Eames' cock was a study in the fine art of perfection. Arthur moved steadily, deliberately, making Ariadne croon and keen in pleasure around Eames. She arched her back, and Eames dipped one hand down to run it beneath the edge of her bustier. He teased a nipple beneath the edge of the bustier, liking the sound of her gasps. "You need it harder, don't you?" Arthur growled, picking up speed.

Eames leaned forward and kissed Arthur, licking the taste of Ariadne out of his mouth. Arthur was startled, but responded just the same. Their shifting angles over Ariadne was enough to make her come again, tightening around Arthur and making her suck on Eames harder. Eames pulled back with a shout, spilling down Ariadne's throat. Another few strokes and Arthur came as well.

They curled around each other, and Eames licked his lips as he turned his face toward Ariadne's. She kissed him, soft and slow, her tongue licking at the seam of his lips. Their tongues danced together, their tastes mixing together, and ended only when they needed to breathe. Arthur slid his hand along her jaw, drawing her toward him. Their kiss was just as passionate, just as fevered, and Eames moved closer. He wanted inside of her, wanted her eyes dilated with passion all over again. But he was completely fucked out at the moment, and she was too exhausted as well.

_I love you._

He should have said the words. He should have let them know how much he really meant them.

But the moment slipped between his fingers and was lost, a hand misdealt and shuffled back within the deck.

***

Eames grasped Ariadne's hips as he pushed into her, her thighs pulled up high over his as he knelt between them. Arthur was sucking on her breasts, a hand down to stroke her clit in time to Eames' thrusts. Ariadne was generally quiet, soft sighs and gasps and little mewling noises that sounded like a lost kitten. Between the two of them, she was louder, full of groans and cries and keening noises as they worked her past the edge of reason. She was lost in the sensation of them, one hand tangled in Arthur's hair and the other gripped tightly on Eames' thigh.

Afterward, Eames curled around Ariadne, licking the sweat from her bare collarbones as Arthur reverently moved within her hot depths. He breathed in the scent of her, deeply. He was memorizing her, memorizing how they all were together, how the edges of their puzzle pieces all seemed to fit despite how jagged they looked. Eamed took her earlobe between his teeth, smiling when she gasped at the added sensation. He drank in the sound of her, headier than any wine and better than any fix he'd tried.

All of this was on borrowed time, with all the linearity of a dream gone amok.

He suddenly needed a cigarette. He only smoked when nervous, something to do with his hands. Poker chips weren't always appropriate to play with, but some people still saw cigarettes as stylish. Ariadne hated them, and Eames pretended that he did it to needle her. Better that she thought ill of him at times, better that she saw the shadow in front of his mind and thought it was the real thing. Sometimes she seemed to see behind the mask he wore, the forgery within the Forger, but he could shuffle through his deck of personae and catch her unawares. There was nothing beneath the mask, he always said, and sometimes she almost seemed to believe it. Arthur never bothered to look; he relied on his facts and figures and thought he knew what lay within the holes of data. He thought he understood what Eames' past must have been like, empty homes and scholarships and breaking free of the foster care system. But that wasn't the whole of it, and Eames knew better than to tell.

Ariadne's heart belonged to Arthur, and there was nothing there for Eames. That was as it should be, that was all he deserved. He knew that. He had always known that. He was a hollow thing pretending to be alive, and Ariadne needed someone whole like Arthur.

He knew it would unravel if he pulled too hard. But it was like picking at the wounds as they healed, like taking apart scabs and stitches. Sometimes he simply couldn't help himself.

He slipped beneath the waves of sensation and let the tide of his lies pull him under.

***

"Run away with me, love," Eames said, lips twisted into a sardonic smile. He already knew what the answer would be, but he couldn't help but ask it anyway.

"Eames," Ariadne began, not even looking up from her drafting table, "we're working. We know the mark's had some training..."

"After we're done. I've a flat in Monaco." She looked up then; he had never given any details about real things, never given away anything. Eames gave his most charming smile and ran his fingers along her arm, watching her shiver in response. "I've been dreaming of you spread out over black satin sheets."

Her eyes were dilated, her lips parted. She might not trust him, but she knew he could make her body sing in ways she had never dreamed of. "Oh," she said, an exhalation of breath.

"I do hope I'm invited," Arthur said from the doorway, shirtsleeves carefully buttoned and his tie in its usual full Windsor knot. The pleats were crisp, and Eames always enjoyed watching him iron them down after Tgetting them back from the cleaners. They were never crisp enough for his liking, and he enjoyed having a personal touch on his wardrobe. Some of his habits had rubbed off on Ariadne, and Eames approved of the better fit to her clothes and the softer fabrics. They clung better to her form, and Eames liked ogling her as she dressed. So did Arthur, but he was less obvious about it.

"Room enough for all three of us," Eames replied easily, meaning it.

"A vacation?" Ariadne asked, a lilting smile on her face as she rolled her pencil between her fingers. "Might be nice. I've never been to Monaco."

"It's warm there," Arthur said, coming into the room to stand behind Ariadne. He placed his hands on her shoulders, massaging them lightly. "We'll pack light," he added as she leaned into his touch.

Eames was delightfully surprised; he had thought Ariadne would take it like a joke, and that Arthur would roll his eyes and assume Eames was lying. "We'll go to all the best places for dinner and dancing. Maybe we'll even get Arthur to have fun."

But of course everything went wrong.

The mark indeed had training, and there were militants _everywhere._ The mark knew something was wrong, knew that _someone_ was there, even if his projections looked at everyone suspiciously. He didn't even trust himself, and Eames knew what that felt like.

He was a young woman that the mark knew, someone that worked in the company. The maze was an office building and its environs, a place where the mark was supposed to do a business deal within the dream. Eames smiled the mark and made some kind of inane comment before handing him a file folder. "That's the agenda for today."

It had been full of blank pages before, but now was full of notes and charts and other interesting things that needed to be extracted. The mark glanced at it quickly. "That looks about right," he said, before handing the folder back to Eames. "It should be an easy acquisition, then."

Eames tucked the folder under his arm and guided the mark through the hallway. He was good at what he did, knew that his copy was flawless. The mark paused at the fancy double doors that led to the conference room where the meeting would take place. The doors opened, uniformed and armed guards at the ready just inside. "Sir?" Eames asked, grip tight on that folder. Something didn't feel right. He needed to get the fuck out of here. _Now._

The guards' eyes snapped to him as the mark looked at him curiously. "Amy?"

"Was there something else you needed?" Eames asked in Amy's voice.

But his expression froze. "This isn't right..."

And as the guards lunged forward, Eames took off running down the hall.

Ariadne and Arthur had been waiting in the wings, another office down the hall. They were supposed to be the other corporation's representatives, but now Arthur pulled out a semiautomatic to shoot at the guards. Ariadne shot out to keep pace with Eames, who was now in his own guise. She shifted the hallways around him, opening up the maze of hallways within the building. Eames knew the way out, knew where all the twists and turns were. He would be able to lose the guards until it was time to wake up. He could do this. He had done it a thousand times before.

Only, office temps around them were starting to morph into guards. The file folder in Eames' hand was too much of a target, too much of a risk. He folded it in half as he ran, shoving it inside his leather jacket. He had to get to the exit safely. He had to get _out._

Shots rang out, and Ariadne cried out in fear. She wasn't used to shoot outs, no matter how many jobs they had done since Fischer's. Most weren't this dangerous, just complicated. Arthur was behind them, trying to slow down the initial guards. The problem was the guards that were developing even as they ran, and Eames wasn't entirely sure that he could make it into the maze after all.

"Split up!" he shouted at Ariadne, shoving her toward another hallway. She stumbled, but kept going, and some of the projections were starting to head that way. The majority, however, were still following Eames. They knew he was the one with the file folder, the one with the pages of secrets pressed over his heart.

Eames plunged into the maze. Ariadne and Arthur knew their way around this place, knew it inside and out. He could focus on getting out in one piece. He was far enough ahead to safely imagine grenades and sniper rifles, and that dropped the first batch of projections nicely. There was shouting behind him, moans of pain and the stench of gunpowder and blood. Eames pushed it from his mind as he turned another corner. There was only one true way to the center of the maze, and he had to reach it. He ducked through the walls, going as quickly and as accurately as he could. Time was of the essence. This was a timed dream, their mark stuck in a comatose state. There was no need to time a kick before, and now he just had to last until the time ran out. Or he decided to kill himself in the dream, but he never liked doing that if he could help it. It was painful and disorienting and sometimes you lost some of what was supposed to be extracted. For this job, payment was dependent on getting _everything._

Eames had to get out. The others would understand. It was a job. It didn't mean anything more than that.

There were screams from somewhere in the labyrinth, and Eames' step faltered when he realized it was Ariadne's scream. "Shit," he hissed, though he couldn't stop. He couldn't turn from the path. If he did, if he lost his way, none of them would see the end of the job. It was all or nothing, that was the arrangement. They were the best, after all, they could take on the jobs like this.

He almost wished he could hear faint strains of Edith Piaf. It would be so fitting. _Non, je ne regrette rien..._

But there was no music, nothing other than gunshots and screams, and the pounding of feet against the floor.

The world tilted sideways, and still Eames ran. He could do this, he knew he could. He was a survivor. He knew how to run and fight and even fuck in a dreamscape. He could be so much more here, he could be anything other than what he was. He could be someone else, anyone else, everyone else.

The screams stopped. Somehow the silence was worse than the screaming.

Everything shifted again, and the walls were paper thin. The projections behind him were starting to punch through the walls in their pursuit of him; unless he did the same to get to the heart of the maze, he would be caught sooner rather than later. So Eames shot through the maze, leaving Ariadne's careful work a wreck in his wake. Like everything else he touched, like everything else he ever tried to plan. He moved faster, the open door to the sanctuary ahead.

He shot through and slammed the door shut behind him, locking it. For a split second, he almost thought he saw Arthur's stunned face staring back at him.

Inside the safety of the room, Eames opened the folder and looked at every hard won page. Every letter and figure was burned into his brain, the secret on the tip of his tongue. He read it over twice, then folded the sheets carefully back into his jacket. There was silence outside of the tiny windowless room, the airless and ventless place that Ariadne had crafted at the heart of the labyrinth. There was time left, still. They had given themselves a half hour to work with real time, just in case they had needed time to coax the mark into trusting them. It wasn't supposed to go tits up before the mark even got to the board room, but that couldn't be helped now.

He thought he could hear music. _Sing to me about the end of the world..._

Ariadne had picked that. She had wanted something different from Edith Piaf, and generally, the song choice depended on the day and where in the random shuffle of her mp3 player the song was at. She had said that the three of them were a separate team, and Arthur had said something about getting out from Mal's shadow. Eames hadn't particularly cared.

_Hold on to the world we all remember dying for. There's still hope left in it yet..._

And then Eames woke up.

He didn't know where Ariadne and Arthur were; they weren't hooked up to the PASIV any longer, and the private hospital room was empty. The mark remained on the bed, tubes and wires and steady IV drips dangling down into his arm. It all looked like where he had been when the dream began.

Eames put the PASIV back together and snapped the case shut. Perhaps the two had gone to see about the client. Perhaps they were negotiating for more time, not sure that Eames would have gotten away with all of the necessary data. He went down the hallway, and it was silent and still in the hospital. Just as well; they were creepy as fuck and had nothing but bad memories for him. Nothing good came of being in the hospital. People only went there when they were sick or when they were preparing to die. The mark was all but dead after all, and his body simply hadn't caught up to that fact yet.

The streets outside were empty, and the chill down Eames' spine was starting to build. This wasn't right. This couldn't be right.

Traffic picked up two blocks away, faceless and nameless people on the street not paying him any heed. He took out his cell phone, and he had perfect signal. Ariadne and Arthur weren't answering his phone. Fuck. Maybe there was a problem? Had their employer picked them up and was upset at the apparent failure? Texts were going through, and he was starting to feel like a perfect idiot. There was no need to panic like this. There had to be a logical explanation for this.

Somewhere on the way to the airport, he got a text back from Ariadne: _Job canceled. Where are you?_

As he was texting her back, Arthur's reply to him came through: _Asshole move in there, Eames. Everything fell apart, so all that effort was for nothing. What fucking good are you?_ Of course Arthur never used shorthand in his texts. Of course it was all spelled out and grammatically correct. Even as Eames felt hollow reading it, he almost wanted to laugh. Self righteous Arthur, thinking he was the only one that could have done it right. Fuck him. Eames hit reply on his text to Ariadne: _Lay low for a while. Will call you later._

He had one of a dozen random passports in his pocket. He could be anyone or no one, and no one would ever know.

He headed alone to Monaco.

***

He didn't quite feel up to seeing his flat in Monaco. He hadn't been there in years, and the memory of it in his head contained too many twisted shades of regret. He found a room at Hôtel de Paris, one he favored when in Monaco. His room overlooked Casino Square, but he couldn't appreciate the view. He turned off his phone and tossed it across the king size bed. He went to the large window and twitched back the white sheer shades to look down below. It always used to give him a sense of satisfaction to stand there, the decadence of the place indicative of success. He had gotten this far by the skin of his teeth, and he hadn't needed to fall back on anyone he had once known.

He would _never_ let on that he was anything less than perfect. Like Arthur, he needed to be in control. Unlike Arthur, he did it by pushing buttons and pulling strings, using people like marionette dolls. It was so much easier to do with people he didn't give a shit about. He knew it did nothing but spin lies and half truths, but he always did what he needed to do to get what he wanted. He knew what that meant, and most of the time it never mattered.

Until it did.

He stared at the rain that was starting to fall outside of the window. The sumptuous reds of the wall coverings and the white leaded furniture of the room were lost on him today. He reached into his pocket for his poker chip and clutched tightly within his fist. He didn't bother testing its weight or seeing if it would spin and skitter across the desk. He knew this was real, knew it with every fiber of his being. He relished the pain inside of his fist. It was all he could expect in the world.

Eames was startled when he felt a warmth within his palm. Prying his hand open, he saw his poker chip edged in his blood. There was a perfect circle gouged into the palm of his hand, blood welling up into the wound. "Well, fuck," he muttered, turning away from the window. He tossed the bloody chip onto the desk and sat down heavily on the bed. The deep burgundy of the coverlet almost matched the blood in his palm, and the sight of it almost seemed to sit wrong with him.

He didn't used to be like this. This maudlin shit wasn't his style. He didn't need people. He didn't need anyone to be close. He used them, he discarded them, he fucked them. People didn't _matter._ The ones that did never amounted to very much, and sooner or later they left. There was no point in caring.

Ariadne and Arthur had each other. Maybe at this very moment they were curled around each other, hands and mouths wandering. They didn't fuck, the two of them. It was making love, all that sentimental rot that Eames avoided. Their touch carried a reverence that Eames couldn't be bothered with. It was as if they couldn't believe it was real, that they were actually touching and kissing and fondling, that if they moved too fast it would all disappear or be revealed as a dream. Watching them together was almost profane, as if he was desecrating their time together. While Eames made sure that Ariandne was panting and loose limbed when he was done with her, he didn't pretend it meant more to her than sex.

Eames frowned at the blurred edges of his reflection in the hotel window. He'd never been jealous before. But then, he'd never really wanted what he couldn't have before. He couldn't resist taunting Ariadne, couldn't resist taking the kisses from her lips whenever he could. He'd known she didn't belong to him and never would. But it had been nice to have that for a while.

He closed his eyes and let his hands fall into fists. If he strained his memory, he could almost hear her stupid songs on her stupid music player, could almost feel her hands on his chest and the soft sigh as she said _Oh, Eames, why didn't you tell me?_ She kept trying to see something that wasn't there, kept trying to peer into the darkness behind his masks and see something that didn't exist. She forgot that he was nothing, just the sum of illusions that never lasted very long.

For a while, he had almost been real. That had been nice.

The rain was coming down hard now, running in rivulets down the windowpane, obscuring his view. It was fitting somehow. Time to wash away the past seven months, pretend that it never happened, he'd never had Ariadne and Arthur in his bed.

But it had all been a dream, and he had to wake up sometime.

_Sing to me about the end of the world..._

Eames' eyes flew open. The rain was sideways, the water running _up_ the windowpane. The world began to tilt, just as it had in the labyrinth when he had gotten separated. Eames looked that bloody poker chip on the desk, then lunged for it. As his hand closed over it, the world began to spin and shake.

And then his eyes opened.

Ariadne was looking down at him, her hands on his chest and tears in her eyes. She looked up and out of Eames' line of sight when she realized Eames was staring at her in shock. "He's awake," she was saying in relief. It had to be Arthur she was looking at. But why the bloody fuck would she care? She shouldn't give a shit. He'd coerced her into this, manipulated her into this semblance of a relationship, this twisted thing he had almost wanted too much.

Arthur came into view. "Good. I hoped that explosion didn't send you down to limbo when you didn't wake up with us."

"What the sodding hell are you going on about?" Eames growled, pushing himself up. The world swam, and he realized he was on the floor. Apparently, they had dumped him out of his chair in order to try to give him a kick out of wherever he had been trapped. The floor looked vaguely familiar, and it resolved into the hospital room. He was lying on the floor beside the mark's bed, all of the same tubing and wiring and IV lines in place. The machinery beeped and booped, marking out his heartbeat in steady ticks as his body refused to give up the ghost.

Just to be sure, Eames grasped his totem. It cut into his palm, but not as sharp as in the courtyard facing hotel room. He turned it over his fingers, feeling the off center weight, and sent it skittering across the floor. The chip worked properly. He looked up at Ariadne and Arthur, at the concern in their eyes. "Where was I? How long was I out?"

"You must have been sent down a layer somehow," Arthur said, shaking his head. "The charge was only supposed to give you more lead time to get through the maze. You did get through, didn't you?" he asked.

"Yeah. I got the documents." Eames managed to push himself to his feet, though Ariadne's presence beside him seemed grounding. "How could I have possibly gone another layer in?"

"The way the maze was structured," Ariadne admitted, looking apologetic. "Execution is everything, and I wanted to leave us an option to go further if we had to..."

"So when time ran out and I didn't come with you..."

"You had to have gone further down," Arthur concluded. He looked at Eames in concern. "What happened? You don't look so rattled, usually."

"Nothing," Eames said, shaking his head. The maudlin shite didn't have to go any further. It was another layer of the dream. It hadn't been real at all.

Ariadne had those doe eyes trained on him, however, and Eames felt like a heel. "You didn't think we'd just leave you there, did you?" she asked in concern, reaching out to touch his wrist.

"The thought crossed my mind," he said coolly. Never mind he was sure it would happen. It had to happen. He was a right bastard sometimes, and sooner or later they would realize there was no changing that fact. Everybody left in the end. It was only a matter of time.

"Oh, Eames," Ariadne murmured. "We wouldn't do that."

Arthur shrugged. "This works, whatever this is. Can we go now? Shift change is in a half hour, and the next round of nurses hadn't been bribed yet."

Ever practical, Arthur was. Eames had to agree. "We're done here. We can go get paid now."

Everything else went on without a hitch. Information was transferred, payments were deposited, and Eames let the poker chip roll across his fingers in the cab ride back to their hotel room. It fell where it was supposed to, felt the way it was supposed to. But there was a restlessness inside, an agitation where he felt as if everything was _wrong_ somehow. Ariadne had told him about Mal, about how Cobb saw her everywhere. He supposed this was how Mal felt, why she would have wanted to return to the dream. There, he knew what would happen. He knew the dreamscape rules better than the back of his hand. Here, everything was new. Nothing was scripted.

And Ariadne and Arthur never reacted like the marionette dolls normal people could be.

The three of them had a single hotel room, and it never bothered him before. But now he had to forget everything he had ever learned, had to rewrite his own story. He wasn't sure he knew how to do that anymore. So instead, he grasped Ariadne and seized her mouth in a kiss, sure that it was goodbye. Surely this was over now. Surely this would end.

But she laughed against his mouth and looped her arms around his neck, softening and pressing her body flush against his. Arthur put down the PASIV carefully and snorted at the sight. "Don't you even want to wait until you get undressed?" he asked. But Eames could dear the rustle of cloth and buttons, the clinking sound of a belt being pulled through loops, and then could feel Arthur's hands when they brushed past his arms to caress Ariadne's.

Clothes were scattered, and Eames' breath was devoured by Ariadne's mouth. He was buried to the hilt inside her, Arthur pressed against her back, and they moved in concert. Eames let his eyes fall shut, seeking to memorize the feel of them, the sounds and scents and cries that fell from Ariadne's lips.

He packed when they were asleep on the bed, limbs tangled together and heavy with sleep. They were dreaming, eyelids flickering as they moved through REM sleep. He was almost jealous, but he squelched the thought ruthlessly. It was almost depressing how little he actually had with him. Ariadne tended to have little trinkets she brought with her, to make things feel more like home. She stirred when he yanked the zipper shut on his carry on, and her eyes cracked open when she realized he wasn't tucked against her back. "Eames?"

"Go to sleep. I won't trouble you anymore."

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, disturbing Arthur. "What are you talking about?" she asked, rubbing at her eyes.

Eames gave her his usual sardonic smile, the one she never seemed to see through. "I thought it would be obvious, love. I won't force you to go through this farce any longer." He got up and dropped a kiss onto her forehead. She looked at him, confused, and he grasped her chin tightly. "Chalk it up to failed potential, if you like. This never would have worked out. And now you're free to have Arthur on your own, and you won't have to put up with me again."

She grasped his wrist tightly as he turned to leave. "What happened when you fell under?" she asked, her nails digging into his skin. "What _happened?"_

"Even assholes grow up sometime," he said, peeling her fingers from his wrist. "It was just time."

"Don't go," Ariadne whispered, her voice breaking. "It isn't like that, not anymore. It hasn't been like that for a long time."

"No need to lie, love. I already know the truth."

"She's not lying," Arthur said, brows knit. "We don't... We want you with us. We don't want you to leave."

Eames wondered how much it cost him to admit that. Arthur played things close to his vest, as if admitting anything would make things fall apart. Eames knew the feeling. "Pretty words. But you've got the girl, now, Arthur. You don't need a third wheel." He hefted his bag as Ariadne left the bag to grasp his hands. "Let go."

She lofted an eyebrow at him, a challenge. "Coward."

"Take the out I'm giving you," Eames hissed. "Don't be more stupid than you can help."

Arthur rolled out of bed by now, and both of them framed Eames. He kept his eyes above their collarbones, even when Arthur grasped his forearm. "Whatever we said in the dream, it wasn't us. I don't know what happened in there, but _it wasn't us."_

Eames gave him a sidelong glance. "Of course not. I know better than you do how this goes."

"Stay," Ariadne insisted, twining her hand through his. "Stay with us. We need you."

"No, you don't," Eames said, trying to shake them off. "What you need is each other, and you've got that already. I've already manipulated the hell out of the both of you. I'm tired of it now."

Stricken, Ariadne let go. She always wore her heart on her sleeve, and Eames was used to poking at it. Shredding it was new, and so was the regret that burned low in his stomach. Arthur shoved him into the wall, and Eames thought he would have preferred to be slapped across the face. Then it would be done and over with, and he could get the hell out of here and lick his wounds. The dream had turned into a nightmare, and he needed _out._

Arthur kissed him, angry and full of teeth. Eames merely stared at him when it was over. "Don't be stupid, Eames," Arthur said, voice tight and shoulders thrown back. He pulled Ariadne up close, and she curled up against Eames. "I knew what you were doing from the start. You just can't help yourself, and you have a dozen different tells. Whatever happened, it wasn't real. _This_ is. The three of us, whatever this is, _this_ is real. Whatever happened to you, that wasn't real."

Eames held himself still, even though he could feel the soft press of Ariadne's breasts his chest, her arms around him. She was such a tiny, fragile thing. He had already broken her, and he didn't want to shatter her to pieces. Why couldn't they see that?

She looked up at him, and snaked a hand up to touch his cheek. "It isn't the same without you. We don't want this without you," she said in a small voice. "We need you, Eames. I thought we were going to Monaco together? I thought this was how it was going to be."

Eames thought of her stupid song, the timer for the kick. _Hold on to the world we all remember dying for. There's still hope left in it yet..._ He hadn't had any hope in a long time.

Arthur pried his bag from his fingers. "Come back to bed, Eames. Stop being an asshole and just accept that this is what we want, all right?"

He leveled his gaze at Arthur, eyes slightly narrowed. "Why?"

"Because this works," Arthur said simply. "Does it have to be more than that? Do we have to pledge undying love?"

_Fucking L word,_ Eames thought, trying to disentangle himself from Ariadne's grasp. "Look..."

"I do love you," Ariadne said softly, looking at him. "Not the same as I love Arthur, but I do. I don't want to lose you."

"Something would be missing if you left."

Eames looked over at Arthur after that quiet admission. He watched Arthur toss his bag into the room's closet without a word. He let Ariadne pull him back to the bed. "What now?"

"Sleep," Ariadne said softly, pushing him back onto the bed. "And when you wake up, we'll all go to Monaco together."

With Ariadne and Arthur on either side of him, Eames slept. For once, he didn't check his totem.

The End.


End file.
